by Tony Dungy
That game was the first we played with instant-replay review. In this system, a coach can challenge an official’s call he believes to be incorrect. The referee then reviews the video of the play, looking at it from various camera angles. If, after review, the original call is upheld, the team whose coach challenged the call is charged with one time-out. In the last two minutes of each half, the coaches cannot challenge a call. Instead, the replay official in the press box determines whether a play should be reviewed.
I was not a fan of instant replay when it was introduced, and I still do not like it. I think officiating, as in other aspects of the game, should be based on real-time human perceptions. Officials have extensive training and perform to the best of their abilities. An official misses a call now and then, but that’s just part of playing the game. Using video and multiple camera angles to review only particular plays—not every play—gives an illusion of precision that is just that: an illusion.
I’m still not in favor of replay, but I do think the challenge system is probably the most effective, constructive means that currently exists to deal with questionable calls.
Because of my Christian witness, I don’t lash out or make a scene with the officials. But even if I did do that, I don’t think berating the officials would help much. In fact, it actually works against your team. If I’m harassing an official all day, when he has a chance to make a decision that is close and could go either way, is he suddenly going to give me the benefit of the doubt, just to get me off his back? I doubt it. Officials are only human. In addition, there is always something going on during a game, and focusing on something that has already happened—which you can’t change—is counterproductive. My dad’s lesson. There’s no time during a game to look back; the play clock is running.
Anyway, in the game against the Giants, I blew two opportunities to challenge, probably because I hadn’t allowed myself to become well-versed in the replay review system. The first opportunity occurred in the first quarter, when Trent Dilfer was sacked and fumbled the ball, which the Giants recovered and ran in for a touchdown. However, Trent’s arm was moving forward when he was hit. I’m pretty sure that if I had challenged the call, it would have been ruled an incomplete pass, negating the touchdown. Following that, Trent threw an interception after he had stepped out of bounds. Again, I didn’t challenge, but I think if I had, their interception would have been negated. Then the Giants would not have kicked their ensuing field goal—the difference in the 17–14 final score.
The replay system bit us a third time that afternoon. With just over a minute to go, we were attempting to drive for either a tying field goal or a game-winning touchdown. Our wide receiver Karl Williams made a twenty-eight-yard reception out across the fifty yard line. However, the replay official decided to review the call, and the completion was overturned, which ended our opportunity to score. Someone from the league office called us the next day to tell us that, in fact, it had been a reception. But by then the damage was done; we were 0–1.
Following the game, I made some ill-advised comments to the media, criticizing the officiating and the replay system, and Commissioner Tagliabue fined me ten thousand dollars. I know I deserved the penalty for having spoken out of my frustration. When I saw the deduction from my paycheck, I could picture my dad’s smile and hear him saying, “Tony, I hope venting at least made you feel better at the time.” My dad never mentioned the incident to me, but I knew better, and he knew I knew better.
Our defense had more great efforts in the two weeks ahead. We held Philadelphia to five points and Denver to ten points. But then we went to Minnesota and Green Bay and lost both games before returning home to face Chicago. I was debating whether or not to bench Trent Dilfer in favor of our backup quarterback, Eric Zeier. I found myself drawing on the lessons I’d learned from Denny Green when he faced the decision of benching Rich Gannon for Sean Salisbury. I decided to stick with Trent for at least one more week. We beat the Bears 6–3 but did not score a touchdown.
We were now 3–3, and I decided to make the switch at quarterback, putting Zeier in to start at Detroit. When he injured his ribs, we debated whether we should go back to Trent the following week against New Orleans or use our second backup, Shaun King. Since Shaun was only halfway through his first season in the NFL, we decided on Trent.
We beat New Orleans. Trent had begun to settle down, playing much better and with more confidence. In fact, Trent directed us on a three-game winning streak before breaking his right clavicle against the Seahawks. He was out for the season. So in came the rookie, Shaun King, in the fourth quarter. His plays helped us to put away the Seahawks, 16–3. In the following weeks, Shaun led us to wins against Minnesota and Detroit as well, giving us a six-game winning streak and a 9–4 record.
Despite our adversity through the first thirteen games, I continued to preach to the team to simply do what we do. Play solid defense. Don’t turn the ball over. Force turnovers. Don’t commit penalties. Don’t worry about who is injured; just play with whom we’ve still got healthy. The players responded. They put us in first place in the NFC Central Division in December, a mark the Bucs hadn’t held at that time of year since 1981.
Shaun was outstanding along the way. He didn’t try to do anything spectacular; he just played solid football. He didn’t turn the ball over, and he led us to win after win. Watching him, I thought back to how far we’d come as a league in assessing talent without respect to skin color. When we had evaluated Shaun for the draft, our entire focus was on how well he could play within our scheme. Nobody on our staff thought twice about skin color—which was quite a shift from years ago. Shaun was the sixth quarterback selected in the 1999 draft. Four of the six, including Shaun, were African American.
I think we’ve finally reached a point in the league where people have the creativity and imagination to see what a player can become and then determine whether it’s the player or the team that should adjust. For instance, Vince Young had some obviously special talents when he was at the University of Texas. The Tennessee Titans appreciated those talents and drafted him. Then their head coach, Jeff Fisher, and their offensive coordinator, Norm Chow, clearly challenged themselves as they adjusted their offense to best utilize Young’s talents, even in the middle of the season. This was a significant accomplishment that benefited both the Titans and Vince Young. Shifts like these represent tremendous strides in professional football—strides toward treating people right and doing what is best for the game.
* * *
Feeling pretty good about ourselves and our possible playoff position, we headed out to Oakland with a chance to clinch a playoff spot. Unfortunately, we fell just short of a victory— just forty-six points short, that is—as we lost, 45–0. It was one of those games in which nothing went right. While I hated for that to happen, I was calm in the locker room after the game. I explained to the team that this was only one game out of sixteen. The fact that we had lost so badly didn’t make the game count for any more or any less. We just needed to correct the things that went wrong and move on.
And move on we did, winning our next game. That win against Green Bay was the second in our last three games against the Packers. We scored twenty unanswered points in the second half, for a final score of 29–10. With that win, we clinched a playoff berth.
Next we headed to Chicago for a chance to win the division, ensure a home playoff game, and get a first-round bye in the playoffs. We accomplished all those things by beating the Bears. On our sideline after the game, each of us got a shirt and hat proclaiming us the “1999 NFC Central Division Champions.” If only it had been below forty degrees. Even so, being part of the first eleven-win regular season in Buccaneers history was spectacular.
Our first opponent in the playoffs would be the Washington Redskins, a team that had played a role in our early progress in Tampa. Two years before, in the preseason of 1997, we had practiced against the Redskins. We were getting good work done with them, but as the practic
es progressed, things got a little chippy. “Trash talk” flowed from both sides, and our guys weren’t handling it very well. At a break, I gathered our team.
“Guys, they’ve got some talkers over there, but I don’t want you to reciprocate. Just let them do their thing. Our thing is to simply play.”
A few minutes later, we were in a drill with their offense against our defense. Brian Mitchell, a Redskins running back, said something to our linebacker Hardy Nickerson and pushed him. Hardy responded in anger, and a fight ensued. I told assistant coach Monte Kiffin to get Hardy off the field and into the locker room. Even the Washington coaches were saying I shouldn’t take Hardy out, since he had only been responding to Mitchell. Again I told Monte to send him inside.
When I met with Hardy after practice, he was apologetic.
“Hardy, your response to a situation is always critical, but it’s especially critical when you’re on the field as a Buc, because you’re one of our captains. I don’t know exactly what happened out on the field, but I do know what I told all of you just minutes before about how to conduct yourselves. If I can’t get the captains to respond appropriately and show the leadership I expect, how is anyone else going to respond?”
Hardy got the message. He apologized to the team and said he understood that in order to lead us in the right direction, he had to play with emotion but not lose his head. The next time he stepped onto the field, he went out as our leader and set the right tone for our team. I think it was important for the players to see this situation play out. Because I had been willing to send even Hardy from the field, they knew the rules applied equally to everyone. That day galvanized our growth as individuals and as a team.
The week of the Washington playoff game, I walked into the general manager’s office and found that Rich McKay already had company. When the man turned around, I realized it was Rich’s close friend Pat Haden, the former quarterback at Southern Cal. Rich and Pat had lived in the same house when Pat was in high school. I sat down in Rich’s office and asked, “Have I ever told you guys the story of how I chose to attend Minnesota over Southern Cal? As I recall, the quarterback lived with the McCay family. . . .”
* * *
The Redskins had beaten the Lions in the first round of the playoffs the week before we hosted them in our new stadium. We started miserably and trailed 3–0 at halftime. Our defense had been adequate, but our offense was misfiring. Before we headed out for the second half, I pointed out the obvious reasons for optimism.
“Guys, we’re kicking off to them. Our defense needs to give us a stop. Then we’ll get the ball back, score, and take the lead. Then we’ll be in good shape. We’ll keep playing our game, take control, and get the fans back into it. Take care of the ball. Don’t panic. Just play our game. We’ve got thirty minutes to play.”
Brian Mitchell ran back our kickoff one hundred yards for a touchdown. Trent then threw an interception, Washington kicked a field goal, and the score was 13–0. This was not the plan. Maybe I had given the wrong talk at halftime.
We gave the ball to the Redskins again, and as they were driving, our safety, John Lynch, stepped in front of their receiver and intercepted Brad Johnson’s pass. We then drove the length of the field for a Mike Alstott touchdown. We trailed 13–7 at the end of the third quarter. Fifteen minutes to play.
During the next few minutes, two fumbles aided our cause. Our defensive end Steve White forced Brad Johnson to fumble, and Warren Sapp recovered on Washington’s thirty-two yard line. As we were going in to score, Shaun King took the snap and fumbled on third down, but Warrick Dunn alertly grabbed the bouncing ball and ran for a first down. We went on to score a touchdown. Bucs 14, Redskins 13. Time was growing short.
I gathered the defense before they went back out on the field. “You’ve been waiting three years for this moment. The offense has handed you the lead—in the playoffs. It’s up to you.”
The Redskins couldn’t move far against our defense. With just over a minute to play, they had a chance to take the lead when they lined up for a fifty-two-yard field goal attempt. I found out later that our personnel director, Jerry Angelo, who had suffered through so many seasons of Bucs football and was watching from Rich McKay’s box, crawled under a countertop because he couldn’t bear to watch. “Tell me if he makes it,” he said.
No one had to tell him. The stadium erupted in hysteria as the snap was low and the holder, Brad Johnson, couldn’t handle it. The ball was never even kicked. We got the ball back on downs, and we ran out the clock using Herm Edwards’s claim to fame, the Victory formation. Bucs 14, Redskins 13. 0:00.
We were moving on to the NFC Championship Game. One game from the Super Bowl.
It’s difficult—no, impossible—to convey the excitement of that evening. It had been such a draining game and comeback, and then having to suffer through that field goal attempt—it was almost too much. To this day, that was the most excited I have ever been. After I did my postgame media interviews and headed back to the locker room, at least thirty minutes after the game had ended, my pulse was still racing.
Once again, Lauren honked all the way up Dale Mabry Highway. This time I rolled down my window on my own and joined in the celebration.
* * *
The news stories the next week focused on “The Greatest Show on Turf,” as the St. Louis Rams offense had been nicknamed. The Rams had been terrific on offense that year, whereas our offense had really struggled to move the ball and score against Washington. We believed our defense was playing well, but nobody wanted to talk about defense. It was merely a tale of two offenses.
I learned the art of storytelling from my mom. Each week when I prepare my message for the team, I try to include something the guys can relate to, some image they can visualize. As I thought about what to say before the St. Louis game, hurricanes and tornadoes immediately came to mind. That year the Atlantic basin had been through a record-setting summer with the number and force of its hurricanes. Everyone in Florida was well aware of hurricanes.
Wednesday rolled around, and we’d already read three mornings’ worth of newspaper articles about the mismatch. The Rams were heavy favorites, predicted to win by two touchdowns. At our team meeting I began my analogy.
“Guys, nature presents us with hurricanes and tornadoes. Hurricanes are powerful, massive storms. Meteorologists predict them, and we all track them coming in. This year they missed us in Tampa, but they didn’t miss others. Hurricanes are dangerous and big, but they are also predictable.
“I grew up in the Midwest. We didn’t have hurricanes there; we had tornadoes. Tornadoes arrive unexpectedly. They are unpredictable. They might come in the middle of the night or in the morning. And when they show up, it’s already too late to prepare for them. You just have to live with whatever destruction they cause.
“This week we have a chance to be a tornado. Everybody knows about the Rams; they’re a fantastic team, a hurricane. Everybody is predicting all the terrible things the Rams will do when they make landfall against the Bucs. But nobody sees the tornado coming. The Rams don’t realize what they’re getting into.
“You’re going to hear me talk all week to the media about how great the Rams offense is and what a challenge it will be for us. But I promise you this: we can stop these guys. They’re better on defense than anybody gives them credit for, and we’ll need to come up with ways to move the ball and score. But we’re not going up there just to play. We’re going up there to win. The world’s attention will be on the Rams, but the tornado is coming.”
Sure enough, the only thing people talked about for the rest of the week was the Rams offense—how they had scored almost fifty points per game at home and even scored thirty points per game on the road.
Our guys were confident, but I wouldn’t let them say anything to the media about us, only about the Rams.
In those days, the NFL required teams to arrive two days before a game. Once a team arrived, the head coach and selected players headed t
o a press conference. We headed to St. Louis on Friday, and Trent Dilfer, John Lynch, Warren Sapp, Hardy Nickerson, Paul Gruber, Mike Alstott, and I represented the team at the press conference.
I made the opening remarks, followed by the players. When it was John Lynch’s turn at the podium, a reporter asked if he agreed with Rams receiver Isaac Bruce about the Bucs’ use of so much zone coverage. Bruce had said we were either afraid or unable to play man-to-man coverage. John gave me a look—he wanted to say what he really thought.
My mind flashed back twenty-seven years as I gave John the same look Mr. Rocquemore had given me when he kept me from saying something rash to Coach Driscoll.
I mouthed one word. “Tornado.”
Next to me, Warren hissed, “Come on, Coach. Come on. Come on.”
“No, Warren,” I whispered. “Remember what we talked about. We’re the tornado. Unknown. Until it’s too late.”
Our guys held back the entire press conference, saying things such as, “We’re just thrilled to be here,” and “The Rams will provide quite a challenge.” I liked the way it was shaping up.
Game day finally arrived. Early in the game, our outside linebacker Derrick Brooks hit Rams receiver Torry Holt so hard that he was spitting blood and had to leave the game momentarily. All of a sudden, the Rams realized a tornado was upon them.
The Rams kicked a field goal in the first quarter, and we kicked one in the second. They added a safety before halftime when we snapped a ball over Shaun King’s head and out of the end zone. We kicked another field goal in the fourth quarter, putting us ahead 6–5. With less than five minutes to play, the Rams’ Ricky Proehl caught a thirty-yard touchdown pass from Kurt Warner. Now ahead by five, they tried a two-point conversion but failed. We tried to put together a final drive to win the game, but after a controversial replay ruling overturned a catch—the rule was changed the next year—we were unable to pick up a first down and lost the game, 11–6.